


Yo-ho!

by mrua7



Series: Strange, scary stories and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. [13]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya have an exexpected experience when they look at a dark painting of a sailing ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yo-ho!

 

 

 

 

The two UNCLE agents stared at the strange painting of a sailing ship, heading across a darkened ocean highlighted by the light of a huge full moon.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that painting was moving,”Napoleon whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“Not possible,”the Russian answered,”It must be some sort of optical illusion, a clever use of light and dark to make one think that.”

Napoleon studied the painting more intently.“So tell me what do you see tovarisch?”

“A ship sailing the ocean, with a rather large depiction of the moon in the background, and oh yes, some clouds in the sky...a few stars.” He shrugged his shoulders, not seeing anything odd at all.

“Doesn’t it look rather eerie to you, like a ghost ship...the Flying Dutchman?”

“Napoleon, you are letting your imagination get the better of you perhaps,” lllya smiled at his partners ramblings.

"I swear, I can smell the salt air. Can’t you?”

“I detect nothing but a good layer of dust in this awful hotel room and nothing more.

“Achoo!”  Illya grabbed his handkerchief.

“Gesundheit.”

“Danke.”

“Bitte...Illya that painting is moving, I swear it!”

Kuryakin pulled his spectacles from his pocket, put them on and leaned forward to examine the piece of artwork.  He jerked back unexpectedly, pulling off his glasses, finding the the lenses suddenly wet, as if sprayed with water.

“I told you that painting was moving,” Napoleon crossed his arms in satisfaction.

Illya reached out with his pointer finger, touching it to the canvas and without warning it disappeared from view..  He withdrew it instantly, finding it wet, and stuck his finger in his mouth.

“It tastes of salt.  This is most bizarre and unnatural.” The logical Russian cocked his head, trying to rationalize what had just happened.

The partners looked at each other,  and as if they were of a like mind, both reached out to the painting.  Solo was later to describe the sensation of being sucked into a vortex, or a whirlpool, if you like.

They found themselves in the water, sputtering and slapping the waves to stay afloat.  The Russian, knowing Napoleon’s phobia of being in deep water, latched onto him with an assuring grip.

“I am here Napoleon, just take deep breaths and keep yourself calm.”

"Easy for you to say,” Solo coughed, taking in a mouthful of salt water. “Tell me we’re dreaming this partner mine?”

"Would that it was so, but I am afraid this is very real.”

A loud splash called their attention as a heavy cargo net dropped in the water beside them from the deck of the ship.

They grabbed hold of it, and were hoisted on board; at last freeing themselves of the ropes, they stood, looking around the deck for their rescuers. There was no one, only shadows cast by the light of the moon.

A moment later, an ethereal green mist appeared at the bow of the ship, and moved slowly towards them along the deck.  It halted, becoming stationary. When it was close to them it gathered itself in place, rising into the air as it materialized into a human form.

It was a bearded man, wearing clothing that looked like it was from the 18th century, a velvet jacket, though he seemed to have no legs. On his head he wore a tri-cornered hat, and there at his side hung a cutlass in a scabbard. The most peculiar thing was that he looked very much like a cartoon.*

“Arrrrrgh, welcome aboard, me hearties.  Ye are on the Flying Dutchman. It’s here ye’ll serve as her crew fer aaaaaall eternity.”  Mwahhahaha haha haaaa! “ Out of nowhere a jagged bolt of lightning cut across the the sky, followed immediately by a loud crack of thunder.

“See Illya, I told you it looked like the Dutchman,” Napoleon snickered.

“I have changed my mind; this is not real,” the Russian insisted,”It must be some drug-induced delusion and nothing more, a residual effect of the chemicals our captors injected us with yesterday or maybe it is something we at at that greasy spoon this morning.”

“QUIET!’ Ye sea dogs.” Davy Jones roared at them. “Now behave yerselves like good dead laddies and get to work swabbin’ the deck.” Two green mops suddenly appeared in his hands.

“Dead?” Illya looked even more perplexed. “We are not dead, you are not real and we will wake up in our seedy hotel room with nothing more than drug-addled headaches.”

“What do ye mean, ye are not dead?” Jones scratched his head, his hand passing right through his hat. “No one living may serve on board the Dutchman. I’m tasked with collecting the souls of those lost at sea, and here is where they stay for all eternity..”

A ghostly cadre of men suddenly appeared behind Jones, skeletal with eyeless sockets staring at the bewildered U.N.C.L.E. agents.

“Ye are not dead? 'Tis a mystery this be?” The captain of the Dutchman moaned.

“Well sorry Mr...ah, Jones,” Napoleon spoke up.”We are very much alive and how we got here, is as big a mystery to us as it is to you.”

No sooner did Napoleon say that, then the ghost of Davy Jones grabbed him and Illya by the scruff of their necks, lifting them as if they weighed nothing, and abruptly tossed them back into the now raging  blue-black sea.

They hit the water with a loud splash, and just as suddenly they found themselves lying on the floor of their motel room, soaked to their skins, still swinging their arms and legs in the air, trying to swim.

“What the hell just happened to us?” Napoleon barked.

Illya tapped the side of his head, trying to remove water from his ear, and peeled a piece of seaweed from his jacket.  “As far as I am concerned, it was a hallucination and nothing more. I am sticking with that story.”

Napoleon stood, heading into the bathroom and grabbed a couple of towels for them. As they dried themselves, they again stared at the painting.

Without warning, Illya drew his pearl-handled switchblade from within his jacket, opening it with a flick of his finger and slashed the painting with it.

“I thought you said it was all a delusion. Why’d you do that?” Napoleon cocked his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, it never hurts to be on the safe side,” Illya smirked as he dried his hair with the towel.” Personally I would say nothing of this to anyone.”

“Good idea chum…” Solo crinkled his nose. “My lips are sealed.”

Illya suddenly sniffled and sneezed. “Why am I suddenly craving rum mixed with water?”

“Grog? Really?” Napoleon snickered, “Oh well, shall we change, hit a bar and drink up me hearty. Yo-ho?”

“Da.”


End file.
